The Merchant of Berlin Part 47

Behind him sounded the wailing and raging of Itzig, who implored Heaven and h.e.l.l to punish the criminal who had cheated him of his money.

CHAPTER XII.

THE LEIPSIC MERCHANT.

Exhausted and weary, Gotzkowsky returned to his house, and retired to his room, to give himself up to the sad and terrible thoughts which tortured him. He could not conceal from himself that the sword above his head was only suspended by two thin threads. If De Neufville did not return from Amsterdam, and if the courier did not bring a relief from Leipsic, then was he lost without redemption, and the deadly sword must fall. For the first time did he think of death; for the first time did the thought of it flash like lightning through his brain, and make him almost cheerful and happy.

He could die; it was not necessary that he should bear the pain and humiliation of life. He could take refuge in the quiet, silent grave under the turf, which would soon be decked with flowers over his agonized breast. He had worked much; his feet were sore, and his heart weary, from his walk through life. Why should he not lay himself down in the grave to rest, to dream, or to sink in the arms of eternal, dreamless sleep?

But this enticing thought he cast forcibly from him. He had not yet lost all hope. His antic.i.p.ations rose as the door opened, and the servant handed him a large sealed letter, which the courier from Leipsic had just brought. With hasty hand he seized the letter, and motioned to Peter to retire. But as soon as he was alone, and was about to break the seal, he drew back and hesitated. This letter might, indeed, contain his salvation; but it might also contain his death-sentence. He weighed it in his hand thoughtfully, and muttered to himself: "It is as light as a feather, and yet its contents may be heavy enough to hurl me down the abyss. But this is foolish," he exclaimed aloud, drawing himself up proudly. "At least I will know my fate, and see clearly into the future."

With a firm hand he broke the seal. But as he read, horror and dismay were depicted in his countenance, and his whole frame shook.

Violently he flung the paper on the ground. "This, then, this is my reward--reproaches, accusations, instead of thanks; scorn and malice, instead of compa.s.sion. Reproaches, because I a.s.sisted them; accusations, that I had offered to help them; only because without me it would have been impossible for the King of Prussia to raise so much money. Without my mediation, they say, they would not have paid, but at the utmost would have had to endure a somewhat longer imprisonment, which would have been more tolerable than the loss of such immense sums."

He paced impatiently up and down, and as he came to the letter he spurned it with his foot, like a poisonous adder, too loathsome to touch. "I have deserved this punishment," cried he, laughing aloud from inward pain.

"Who bade me love mankind? who bade me help them, instead of like a highwayman falling upon and plundering them, when they were defenceless? Fool that I was to give to life any other interpretation, any other end!" He threw himself in a chair, and was soon buried in thought. Once more he reviewed his whole past, and as he made up the accounts of his life, he had to confess that the total of his hours of happiness was but small, while that of his years of misery and toil was heavy enough to bear him down. But there was still one hope, and as long as he could expect De Neufville's arrival all was not lost, and he must still wait in patience, still struggle with the worm that gnawed at his heart. With such painful thoughts as these was he busied when the door opened, and Elise entered with a glowing countenance.

She was so happy, that in her selfishness she did not perceived his troubled and care-worn looks. "Oh" said she, kissing his hand, "I am so happy at last to find you alone at home. Several times have I sought you here."

"With letters for me?" asked he, hurriedly, for he had not observed Elise's excited countenance. Both were so occupied with their own thoughts and feelings, that they took note of nothing else. "Have not letters arrived?" asked he once more.

"No letters have arrived," said she, smiling joyously, "but happiness has come."

"De Neufville is here, then!" cried Gotzkowsky, anxiously, hurrying toward the door.

"What has De Neufville to do with it?" asked Elise, with surprise holding him back.

Gotzkowsky stared for a moment, terrified at her bright face, and then a sad smile stole across his own. "Poor fool that I am!" he muttered; "I complain of the egotism of men, while I am selfish enough to think only of myself." He drew Elise toward him, and looking at her with infinite tenderness, said, "Well, my child, speak: what happiness has arrived?"

"Look at me," said she, playfully; "can you read nothing in my looks?"

Sadly he looked down deep into her large bright eyes. "Oh, your eyes s.h.i.+ne as bright as two stars of hope, the last that are left me!"

Elise threw both her arms around his neck, and kissed him, then drew him with gentle force toward the ottoman, and, as she forced him down on the cus.h.i.+ons, she took her own seat, smiling, on the stool at his feet. "How often, my father, have you sat here and cared for me! Ah!

I know well how much sorrow I have caused you in these last four sad years, I could not command my heart to forget. You knew this, and yet you have been considerate and gentle as a mother, and kind as the best of fathers. You were never angry with me on account of my grief; you knew of it, and yet you allowed me to weep." She took his hand in hers, and for a moment covered her hot, burning face with it, then looked cheerfully up in his face. "See," she said, "I do not shed any more tears, or, if I do, they are tears of joy. My father, I come to ask your blessing. Feodor is again here; he has come to ask me of you for his wife. Oh, forgive him, and grant your blessing to a love which till now has been the anguish of my life, but which hereafter will be its chief happiness!"

Blus.h.i.+ng and with maiden modesty she nestled in her father's breast.

Gotzkowsky felt himself paralyzed with terror. He pressed his child's head warmly to his breast, saying to himself, "And this, too, my G.o.d!

you try me sorely. This is the greatest sacrifice you have demanded of me yet; but my pride is gone. This offering, too, will I make."

"Well, my father, you do not answer?" asked Elise, still leaning on his breast. "All is right, is it not? and you will give us your fatherly blessing, and forgive Feodor the errors of former years, and receive him as a son?"

Gotzkowsky, with his eyes still raised to heaven, moved his lips in silent prayer. At last, after a long, painful pause, he said solemnly: "Well, let it be so; I give my consent."

Elise uttered a cry of joy, and, amidst tears of unalloyed delight, kissed him, as smiling, and often interrupted by her own deep emotion, she narrated her meeting with Feodor, Lodoiska's death, and the letter she had written to her. "Oh, how delightful this hour would be,"

continued she, after finis.h.i.+ng her narrative, "if I could only remain with you! Love bids me go, and yet it keeps me here! I have promised Feodor to go with him, but I did it in my haste, seeing only him and listening only to his prayers. Now I see you, my father, and it seems to me as if I could not leave you to-day."

"To-day!" cried Gotzkowsky, and a ray of joy shone from his face. He arose, and, with folded arms, paced the room. His soul was full of grat.i.tude to G.o.d, to whom he had prayed in his despair. Was this not a sign that G.o.d was with him, even if men forsook him?--that G.o.d had pity on him, even if all others were pitiless. This day his child wished to leave him, to enter on a brilliant destiny. He had, therefore, no longer any need to be anxious about her fate; and, as she was going to leave at once, he would be spared the torture of having her as a witness to his disgrace and degradation. He took her to his breast, and kissed her with heartfelt fervor. "Farewell, my child, my only happiness; you wish to leave me. I will be alone, but I will have time to think of and pray for you." He then cast her from him almost roughly, for he felt as if his grief would unman him. "Go,"

he cried, "your bridegroom is waiting for you; go, then, and order your bridal ornaments."

Elise smiled. "Yes, I will adorn myself; but you, father, will place the wreath of myrtle on my head, will you not? That is the sacred and last office of love with which a mother sends a daughter from her arms. I have no mother. You are both father and mother to me. Will you not crown me with the myrtle-wreath?"

"Yes," said he, with a sigh, "I will place the myrtle on your brow, and G.o.d grant it may not turn to a crown of thorns! Go now, my child, adorn thyself, and leave me alone to pray for you."

He greeted her smilingly, and accompanied her to the door. But when she had left the room he felt indescribably lonesome, and, pressing his hands against his breast to suppress the cry which choked him, he muttered in a low tone, "I have lost her--she is mine no longer. Every thing forsakes me. The unfortunate is ever alone!"

Once more a knocking, repeated at his door, awakened him from his reverie. Peter his servant entered, and announced Herr Ephraim.

A ray of joyful astonishment flashed across him, and, as he stepped hastily toward the rich Jew of the mint, he said to himself: "Is it possible that this man comes to have pity on me in my distress? Will he be more magnanimous than Itzig? Will he a.s.sist me?"

CHAPTER XIII.

EPHRAIM THE TEMPTER.

"You seek me?" asked Gotzkowsky, as Ephraim entered and saluted him in silence.

Gotzkowsky's sharp glance had detected in his insolent hearing and contracted features that it was not pity or sympathy which had brought the Jew to him, but only a desire to gloat over the sufferings of his victim. "He shall not enjoy his triumph. He shall find me collected and determined, and shall not suspect my grief." Thus thinking, he forced his features into a cheerful expression, and handing a chair to the still silent Ephraim, said laughingly: "Indeed, I must be in a dangerous plight, if the birds of prey are already settling around me.

Do you already scent my death, Herr Ephraim? By Heaven! that would be a dainty morsel for you!"

"You are angry with me," said Ephraim, shaking his head slowly; "but you shall know how much injustice you do me. I bring you an important and fearful piece of news."

"It must be fearful, indeed," interrupted Gotzkowsky, "as you do yourself the pleasure of bringing it to me in person."

Ephraim shrugged his shoulders and abruptly replied, "De Neufville has failed!"

A cry of horror escaped Gotzkowsky's lips; he staggered, and was obliged to support himself by a chair to keep himself from falling.

This was the last, decisive blow, and it had wounded him mortally. "De Neufville has failed!" he muttered low to himself.

"Yes, he is bankrupt!" said Ephraim with scarcely suppressed malice.

"The proud Christian merchant, whose greatest pleasure it was to look down with contempt upon the Jew Ephraim, he is bankrupt. The Jew stands firm, but the Christian merchant is broken." And as he spoke, he broke into a scornful laugh, which brought back to Gotzkowsky his composure and self-possession.

"You triumph!" he said, "and on your brow is marked your rejoicing over our fall. Yes! you have conquered, for De Neufville's failure is your deed. It was you who persecuted him so long, and by cunning suspicions and calumny undermined his credit until it was destroyed, and the whole edifice of his honorable industry fell together."

"It _is_ my work," cried Ephraim exultingly, "for he stood in my way, and I have pushed him out of it--what more? Life is but a combat; whoever is the strongest--that is, has the most money--is conqueror."